Good morning to all my devoted readers, and welcome back to the popular section of the blog, "Tea with the dead" (©)
As the holidays are now approaching, most dead people tend to spend time with their families, or travel to Miami. Among the list of dead celebrities we wanted to bring here this time, the only two who were available were Anna Nicole Smith and Mr. death himself.
Since my readers enjoyment is my primary concern, and as much as I would like to, an interview with Anna Nicole Smith might be less valuable than to talk with death himself. He came a long way to here, so please, give him a warm welcome! [fake applauses and black confetti in the air]
DM: We are extremely honored to have you here. Thank you so much for coming.
D: The pleasure is all mine.
DM: Would you like milk and sugar in your tea, or you prefer it black?
D: Black, of course.
DM: I didn't think otherwise. So, I am sure you have a lot to tell us. First of all, you look very well.
D: Thank you.
DM: I mean, you look very well for someone who is in charge for so long.
D: Well, I exercise.
DM: But still, you were working for the last billion years, no?
D: Oh, not at all! We substitute every 66 years. I was appointed in 1946. The poor guy before me had two world wars to pass, so I guess I have nothing to complain about.
DM: 66 years? So it means you have 4 more years at work. How will you choose the next person in charge?
D: We already got 1,024 applications, and the grand final will be in a death metal concert in Buenos Aires. Everyone who has voted for the Republican party or fried ants with his glasses when he was young is eligible to participate.
DM: Why Buenos Aires?
D: Good food. Each one who was ever in charge is going to be on the jury. All 50 millions of us.
DM: Don't you think it will be noticed? I mean, that's a lot of guys dressed in black.
D: Fortunately, the London Olympics are taking place that time, so nobody will care.
DM: Well, good luck with that!
D: Thank you.
DM: How do you deal with all this fame and stardom? You are mentioned everyday in the newspapers, make numerous appearances in films- even in Disney movies.
D: Don't forget the many popular book titles I am mentioned: "Death in the afternoon", "Death in Venice", "Death in the Caribbeans".
DM: I didn't hear about the last one.
D: Yes, it wasn't as successful- but much more fun!
DM: Yet, something is bothering me. While we are now having this chat, hundreds of people die every minute. How can you explain it? Can you be in multiple places at once?
D: Oh, you didn't expect me to greet each one of them, did you? I am seeing only celebrities.
DM: And what about all the others?
D: They get an answering machine: "Hello, you have reached death. I am busy with other calls so please wait on line or die again later".
DM: That's quite mean.
D: Well, I have a black humor... But mind you, everyone does get a welcome pack once they are dead.
DM: Welcome pack? What's in it?
D: Toothbrush, small shampoo and soap samples, and if you happen to die in business class, also a pair of socks.
DM: I see. Well- that's a lot of new information... I have many more questions to ask you, but sadly, our time is up. Thank you so much for coming!
D: I am not going anywhere.
DM: I beg your pardon?
D: You cannot expect to invite death and let him walk away empty handed.
DM: What do you mean? Am I going to die?
D: Well, technically, the invitation was the initiative of "Daniel M.'s blog", so I guess I have to shut down and kill your blog.
DM: But... why? I didn't do anything! I have so many more ideas and things to write about. Don't do this!
D: That's what they all say.
DM: Seriously, that's a very bad idea.
D: I am sorry, but I have no other choice.
DM: Can't you just once disobey the orders?
D: That's another thing they all say.
DM: Won't you play chess with me before your fatal strike?
D: Nice try. It didn't help Bergman last year.
DM: I really cannot believe you.
D: You will pass the stage of denial..
DM: But you cannot do this to me, it's not possible!
D: ...anger..
DM: Stop mumbling, you son of a...
D: ...acceptance..
DM: Fine, continue.
D: ...weird, sudden happiness..
DM: When I think of it, I will finally have some time to spend with my daughter in the park.
D: ...realization..
DM: I don't have a daughter... But I could still take the tube to the park.
D: ...jewish realization..
DM: Maybe I will take a bus, it's cheaper.
D: ...and finally, famous last words..
DM: I knew we should have invited Anna Nicole Smith.
D: Well, it's all over now. Sorry for that. As much as I would like to say something clever or witty right now, I must run to my one o'clock meeting. It's Andrew Lloyd Webber, and believe me, I am already 10 years late for this one. For Daniel M.'s male readers- go to your favorite sports website or search for porn or something. For the ladies, hope there is a desparate housewives episode running on television right now. I will see each one of you in due time, so meanwhile- do something useful. Learn a foreign language; propose to the girl you love; find the cure for cancer; make love, not war; steal a candy from a baby; choke an old lady or two;
and enjoy life, while it lasts.
Saturday, 15 March 2008
Thursday, 13 March 2008
18. Jabbar's birthday
Another month has passed, and Daniel M. was still seating in his rocking chair, a pipe in his mouth and Jabbar the iguana on his lap. The rain didn't stop from pouring and in this late hour at night it was the only sound to be heard (Daniel M. was living in a city that while being among the biggest in the world, it was strictly forbidden to show any signs of life after a certain hour, say, 7pm).
Both Daniel M. and Jabbar closed their eyes, completely submitting themselves to this ancient meditative noise, becoming calmer as the minutes passed by.
Suddenly an alarm sounded and flashing red lights filled the otherwise dark room.
The main door was opened, and Alfred, the obedient butler, came in, holding 3 colored balloons and wearing a clownish birthday hat, making him look very ridiculous for any taste.
"Happy birthday, Jabbar!", he said in a serious voice, trying his best to sound as if he really meant it.
"Master, I prepared for you a fillet minion, medium-well, as you like it, and Teresa baked your favorite chocolate cake for this happy occasion."
"Please send her my love, and thank you very much, but it is completely unnecessary, since Jabber is vegetarian and also doesn't eat chocolate and I don't want to be rude and eat the cake all by myself".
"But, master, these are for you", tried the butler to speak to the sane part that wasn't completely destroyed in Daniel M's mind, but with no audible success.
"Many thanks, but I think I will pass. You are dismissed now. Please let me know if there is any...", Daniel M. didn't even finish the sentence as the parrot in the next living room was screaming: "You've got mail! You've got mail!", and later: "Chelsea got beaten by Liverpool 1-0". "I will be right back, sir", said Alfred, hissing to himself: "freak". In no time the butler has returned with a pile of letters and one small package. "Let me know if you need anything else- I will leave you alone now". "Excellent idea", replied the indifferent Daniel M.
He piled the letters on the Art Deco table and started to read them.
First, he saw the commercial stuff. "Sell your mother to receive $10 discount in Tower Records", "Open a checking account for your dog", "Buy four brides from Ukraine and receive one free", and other disgusting stuff.
Later, he was ready to answer the various fan mail he has received.
Peter, from Portland, Oregon (real name), was asking:
"I would be happy to see some drawing along those (great/superb/amazing) posts. Do you think it is possible?"
-My dear Peter, due to a very prosperous month for the blog (two pounds were found on the street), I am proud to tell you that the blog, starting next week, will employ the unknown genius Belgian artist, Jean Philippe leCoq, who will provide each post with his personal view on the subject.
From the press: "Mr. leCoq... is... like Picasso" (Le Monde- edited article), "Jean Philippe leCoq has done it again... almost as... last time..." (New York Times- edited article).
Also visit www.jeanphilipplecoq.be for more information (might not work due to an overwhelming demand).
Jenna, from Sweden (fake name, among other things), was asking:
"I liked especially your post about the old ladies in London. Will there be more posts about old women in the future?"
- Absolutely.
Asaf from Israel writes: "for your next Tea with the Dead section, you might bring Albert Einstein".
- We have already spoken with Mr. Einstein's agent, but currently he is available only in other galaxies. We will, however, bring someone else of this caliber and promise you would not be disappointed.
Anonymous was writing again, criticizing the low cultural standards of the blog, reaching a new low, as he noted, this month.
"Well- maybe this list of 10 favorite movies will shut him up for another while", thought Daniel M., and gave the following:
1) Playtime- Jacques Tati
2) Blowup- Antonioni
3) Dr. Strangelove, Eyes wide Shut or any other film by Kubrick
4) Seven Samurais- Kurasawa
5) Taxi Driver- Scorsese
6) Vertigo- Hitchcock
7) La dolce Vita- Fellini
8) High Heels- Almodovar
9) The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie- Bunuel
10) Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou- Wes Anderson
Finally, there was a large purple package. "I wonder what's inside it", thought Daniel M.
When he opened the package he discovered four large tomatoes, two of them got squeezed and smashed (probably because of the mail), and a small note, each letter was cut from a different newspaper. "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I THINK OF YOUR STUPID BLOG".
Daniel M. could not hold his smile. "Jabbar, finally something for you!", he gave the giant iguana the smashed tomatoes and the beast ate them with pleasure. "Happy birthday, boy, happy birthday".
Both Daniel M. and Jabbar closed their eyes, completely submitting themselves to this ancient meditative noise, becoming calmer as the minutes passed by.
Suddenly an alarm sounded and flashing red lights filled the otherwise dark room.
The main door was opened, and Alfred, the obedient butler, came in, holding 3 colored balloons and wearing a clownish birthday hat, making him look very ridiculous for any taste.
"Happy birthday, Jabbar!", he said in a serious voice, trying his best to sound as if he really meant it.
"Master, I prepared for you a fillet minion, medium-well, as you like it, and Teresa baked your favorite chocolate cake for this happy occasion."
"Please send her my love, and thank you very much, but it is completely unnecessary, since Jabber is vegetarian and also doesn't eat chocolate and I don't want to be rude and eat the cake all by myself".
"But, master, these are for you", tried the butler to speak to the sane part that wasn't completely destroyed in Daniel M's mind, but with no audible success.
"Many thanks, but I think I will pass. You are dismissed now. Please let me know if there is any...", Daniel M. didn't even finish the sentence as the parrot in the next living room was screaming: "You've got mail! You've got mail!", and later: "Chelsea got beaten by Liverpool 1-0". "I will be right back, sir", said Alfred, hissing to himself: "freak". In no time the butler has returned with a pile of letters and one small package. "Let me know if you need anything else- I will leave you alone now". "Excellent idea", replied the indifferent Daniel M.
He piled the letters on the Art Deco table and started to read them.
First, he saw the commercial stuff. "Sell your mother to receive $10 discount in Tower Records", "Open a checking account for your dog", "Buy four brides from Ukraine and receive one free", and other disgusting stuff.
Later, he was ready to answer the various fan mail he has received.
Peter, from Portland, Oregon (real name), was asking:
"I would be happy to see some drawing along those (great/superb/amazing) posts. Do you think it is possible?"
-My dear Peter, due to a very prosperous month for the blog (two pounds were found on the street), I am proud to tell you that the blog, starting next week, will employ the unknown genius Belgian artist, Jean Philippe leCoq, who will provide each post with his personal view on the subject.
From the press: "Mr. leCoq... is... like Picasso" (Le Monde- edited article), "Jean Philippe leCoq has done it again... almost as... last time..." (New York Times- edited article).
Also visit www.jeanphilipplecoq.be for more information (might not work due to an overwhelming demand).
Jenna, from Sweden (fake name, among other things), was asking:
"I liked especially your post about the old ladies in London. Will there be more posts about old women in the future?"
- Absolutely.
Asaf from Israel writes: "for your next Tea with the Dead section, you might bring Albert Einstein".
- We have already spoken with Mr. Einstein's agent, but currently he is available only in other galaxies. We will, however, bring someone else of this caliber and promise you would not be disappointed.
Anonymous was writing again, criticizing the low cultural standards of the blog, reaching a new low, as he noted, this month.
"Well- maybe this list of 10 favorite movies will shut him up for another while", thought Daniel M., and gave the following:
1) Playtime- Jacques Tati
2) Blowup- Antonioni
3) Dr. Strangelove, Eyes wide Shut or any other film by Kubrick
4) Seven Samurais- Kurasawa
5) Taxi Driver- Scorsese
6) Vertigo- Hitchcock
7) La dolce Vita- Fellini
8) High Heels- Almodovar
9) The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie- Bunuel
10) Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou- Wes Anderson
Finally, there was a large purple package. "I wonder what's inside it", thought Daniel M.
When he opened the package he discovered four large tomatoes, two of them got squeezed and smashed (probably because of the mail), and a small note, each letter was cut from a different newspaper. "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I THINK OF YOUR STUPID BLOG".
Daniel M. could not hold his smile. "Jabbar, finally something for you!", he gave the giant iguana the smashed tomatoes and the beast ate them with pleasure. "Happy birthday, boy, happy birthday".
Sunday, 9 March 2008
17. Fear and loathing in the big apple (part II)
Good afternoon to all my devoted readers. Today, as promised, I shall continue my pointless memoirs of the two years I spent in the big apple. As you will soon find out, the apple is certainly big, but itsurely has many worms in it (and some Mexican waiters waiting to
refill the water glasses of those worms).
Anyhow, I was telling you about my school experience, which was not really a happy one. However, my living experience was much, much nicer. I was living in a student residence place near the Columbia University, intended for grad students from around the world, named, how originally- International house. Each student had his own tiny room (as I was used to the luxury of the farm, with a fireplace and a Sultan-size bed in every room, it was quite a shock for me at first).
I was living in the eighth floor, and my tiny room was just in front of the elevator, ensuring me lots of free nightly entertainment. The house had some great facilities, and various bizarre activies. The most popular figure in that place was a man nicknamed HR, who was a
weird combination between Hugh Hefner and the annoying, though sweet grandfather you never had. He was in charge of most artistic activities in the house, such as Salon night (concerts), ballroom dancing, and ice cream social, which happened every month, including
winter, and in which he was serving some disgusting ice cream to anyone brave enough to go there (legend was that he liked to lick the spoons every now and then). These events were even more painful, as we received voice messages in our phones in his very slow, confused voice: "hello, this is HR. Today, no, sorry, tomorrow we will have... I forgot... All you can eat, for FREE!"
Most people were very nice and interesting, and it was such a nice relief to speak and hang out with non-musicians for a change. Of course, not everyone were equally interesting, and many times in the cafeteria, while your mysenthropic servant was trying to eat in peace,
a guy (usually Austrian) would sit next to me and start the formal boring conversation (what are you doing, where are you from, what is the situation in the middle east, etc.), and after learning he is working in a bank, I would start talking about the quality of the mashed potatoes.
As I said before, I was living on the 8th floor, where I met in my first year some great people who became my best friends, lovers or travel mates- some are even reading this blog right now! One of them, a crazy German guy who is now a reporter in a well known German
newspaper, told me I'm very quotable and had suggested me to write down some of my thoughts. In what has become a I.House cult classic, and the forefather of this blog, I have posted outside my door, every single morning, my saying of the day.
Some popular ones, which I remember- "blondes have more fun, they just don't know it", "drinking while problems may cause pregnancy", and many others became particularly famous. As my room was just in front of the elevator, it was the perfect location. After two weeks, the
whole floor would know about it, and after a month many other floors as well. I would open my door in the morning to see women in bath-robes (and sadly, men in bath robes) waiting for the latest entry and finally started to feel the sweet taste of success (well, I'm a little
carried away here, but it is a post about America, so please forgive me).
As for the life outside the house, I have this nice story. After one concert in Israel, a guy came to me and urged me to call his friend Peggy when I am in New York. He said that she is practically running the town and that she would be happy to meet me.
He gave me her number, and I completely forgot about the whole thing. One day, I found that note in my pocket and it out of complete boredom I dialed her number. It turned out that Ms. Peggy was the most important PR for movies in the east coast. On our first call, she has invited me to the New York premiere of the awful movie, "Memoirs of a Geisha". It was screened at the VIP section of the MoMa, and I was probably the only one without an Armani suit and a Gucci bow-tie. After that horrible film we all went to the fanciest Italian restaurant I've ever seen.
I sat randomly in a free seat, right in front of a thin man with glasses and a very fat guy. The fat guy turned out to be an executive at Warner Bros. (to my innocent question, if he liked the movie, he replied- "we don't look at movies that way, we only care if it's going to be successful. And this is going to be successful, except of Japan), and the thin man turned out to be the executive director of MoMa. Nice. An attractive lady came and sat next to me, and asked me this memorable question- "so, are you from the production, or from the New-York Times?"
My answer, "I am just a pianist", was obviously wrong (the correct answer, of course, would be: "whatever turns you on, babe").
For the next event, a premiere of Ralph Fiennes and Vanessa Redgrave movie, Peggy has asked me to play after the movie, while people were going to eat. And so, after the screening, we were going to a huge palace, and I was pushed to the black box, while all were entering the dinning hall. As it was somewhat humiliating, and I was very hungry, after a while I stopped playing (since everyone was already inside the hall, eating), sat in a free table and ordered whatever I could from the menu. I ate as fast as possible, and ran back to continue playing some more Chopin waltzes and mazurkas I never played before. Many people, upon leaving told me- "Thank you, Mr. Music", or "wow- I love Bach!"
When all was over, I simply ran away with the crowd. I never heard from Peggy again.
The second funny story, faintly connected to music, was after a recital I gave in a small venue downtown. A very nice looking lady in her thirties came to congratulate me, saying- "I felt like you were touching the woman's body all over... making love to her without stopping... Your music sounds so similar to the poetry I am writing... About sex and love making... Would you like me to read it to you?". Now, dear readers, very sadly I had a girlfriend that time, or I would happily recite her poems in my sleep.
Well- I still have many more stories and anecdotes from that time, but these will wait for the upcoming "hitchhiker's guide" section. Until then, be good to yourselves!
refill the water glasses of those worms).
Anyhow, I was telling you about my school experience, which was not really a happy one. However, my living experience was much, much nicer. I was living in a student residence place near the Columbia University, intended for grad students from around the world, named, how originally- International house. Each student had his own tiny room (as I was used to the luxury of the farm, with a fireplace and a Sultan-size bed in every room, it was quite a shock for me at first).
I was living in the eighth floor, and my tiny room was just in front of the elevator, ensuring me lots of free nightly entertainment. The house had some great facilities, and various bizarre activies. The most popular figure in that place was a man nicknamed HR, who was a
weird combination between Hugh Hefner and the annoying, though sweet grandfather you never had. He was in charge of most artistic activities in the house, such as Salon night (concerts), ballroom dancing, and ice cream social, which happened every month, including
winter, and in which he was serving some disgusting ice cream to anyone brave enough to go there (legend was that he liked to lick the spoons every now and then). These events were even more painful, as we received voice messages in our phones in his very slow, confused voice: "hello, this is HR. Today, no, sorry, tomorrow we will have... I forgot... All you can eat, for FREE!"
Most people were very nice and interesting, and it was such a nice relief to speak and hang out with non-musicians for a change. Of course, not everyone were equally interesting, and many times in the cafeteria, while your mysenthropic servant was trying to eat in peace,
a guy (usually Austrian) would sit next to me and start the formal boring conversation (what are you doing, where are you from, what is the situation in the middle east, etc.), and after learning he is working in a bank, I would start talking about the quality of the mashed potatoes.
As I said before, I was living on the 8th floor, where I met in my first year some great people who became my best friends, lovers or travel mates- some are even reading this blog right now! One of them, a crazy German guy who is now a reporter in a well known German
newspaper, told me I'm very quotable and had suggested me to write down some of my thoughts. In what has become a I.House cult classic, and the forefather of this blog, I have posted outside my door, every single morning, my saying of the day.
Some popular ones, which I remember- "blondes have more fun, they just don't know it", "drinking while problems may cause pregnancy", and many others became particularly famous. As my room was just in front of the elevator, it was the perfect location. After two weeks, the
whole floor would know about it, and after a month many other floors as well. I would open my door in the morning to see women in bath-robes (and sadly, men in bath robes) waiting for the latest entry and finally started to feel the sweet taste of success (well, I'm a little
carried away here, but it is a post about America, so please forgive me).
As for the life outside the house, I have this nice story. After one concert in Israel, a guy came to me and urged me to call his friend Peggy when I am in New York. He said that she is practically running the town and that she would be happy to meet me.
He gave me her number, and I completely forgot about the whole thing. One day, I found that note in my pocket and it out of complete boredom I dialed her number. It turned out that Ms. Peggy was the most important PR for movies in the east coast. On our first call, she has invited me to the New York premiere of the awful movie, "Memoirs of a Geisha". It was screened at the VIP section of the MoMa, and I was probably the only one without an Armani suit and a Gucci bow-tie. After that horrible film we all went to the fanciest Italian restaurant I've ever seen.
I sat randomly in a free seat, right in front of a thin man with glasses and a very fat guy. The fat guy turned out to be an executive at Warner Bros. (to my innocent question, if he liked the movie, he replied- "we don't look at movies that way, we only care if it's going to be successful. And this is going to be successful, except of Japan), and the thin man turned out to be the executive director of MoMa. Nice. An attractive lady came and sat next to me, and asked me this memorable question- "so, are you from the production, or from the New-York Times?"
My answer, "I am just a pianist", was obviously wrong (the correct answer, of course, would be: "whatever turns you on, babe").
For the next event, a premiere of Ralph Fiennes and Vanessa Redgrave movie, Peggy has asked me to play after the movie, while people were going to eat. And so, after the screening, we were going to a huge palace, and I was pushed to the black box, while all were entering the dinning hall. As it was somewhat humiliating, and I was very hungry, after a while I stopped playing (since everyone was already inside the hall, eating), sat in a free table and ordered whatever I could from the menu. I ate as fast as possible, and ran back to continue playing some more Chopin waltzes and mazurkas I never played before. Many people, upon leaving told me- "Thank you, Mr. Music", or "wow- I love Bach!"
When all was over, I simply ran away with the crowd. I never heard from Peggy again.
The second funny story, faintly connected to music, was after a recital I gave in a small venue downtown. A very nice looking lady in her thirties came to congratulate me, saying- "I felt like you were touching the woman's body all over... making love to her without stopping... Your music sounds so similar to the poetry I am writing... About sex and love making... Would you like me to read it to you?". Now, dear readers, very sadly I had a girlfriend that time, or I would happily recite her poems in my sleep.
Well- I still have many more stories and anecdotes from that time, but these will wait for the upcoming "hitchhiker's guide" section. Until then, be good to yourselves!
Sunday, 2 March 2008
16. Fear and loathing in the big apple (part I)
Ladies and Gentlemen, devoted readers of the blog, welcome to the United States of America!
These upcoming two posts will deal with the two years I lived in New York, suffering my way through so you could sit comfortably and read this on your laptops.
The first time I came to the States was in a very bizarre coincidence. My grandmother, who ran away to New York when my mother was in her teens and had almost no contact with us, sent one day a letter, offering 4 tickets and inviting the four of us (my divorced parents, my sister and I) to her son's wedding in New York. As it was clearly an un-vitation (surely she didn't expect us to actually agree to come- also, it was sent only a month before the wedding), and all of us are very crazy individuals, we immediately decided to accept this one time offer. We went there separately- my father first, as he had some work to do in LA, my mother and sister some days later, and I came last, from Paris, where I had my summer vacation with my (then) girlfriend.
As I am not the only unorganized person in my family, I wasn't provided with any information, and I didn't know the address of the flat my family stayed at (because we all thought that since my mother will pick me up in the airport, I shouldn't know anything else). In the immigration form, under "address in the US", I wrote: "father's apartment..."- so naive I was back then.
The officer, seeing that stamped my form, and shouted at me- "You are not welcome in the United States of America!". Fortunately, a nice lady working there saw me, and provided me with a fake address, sending me to another officer (if it was only two months later, I would be sent back immediately or stay in prison). This wasn't the end of the story, as I apparently told my mother to be in the wrong airport. As I was waiting for 4 hours in the airport, with no way to be reached, and with no phone number to call to, I got to the mature conclusion that my family is dead, and I have to deal with that fact. With $100 in my wallet, I began to imagine the endless possibilities that are for me that week. "After all his family died, and with only $100 in his pockets, Daniel M. started his way in New York, and after only a month became rich and famous. The new rumors suggest he is going out with Scarlett Joh...", in that point of my fantasy my mother, hysterically shouting at me, came to pick me up.
All that week was immensely bizarre and funny, as to be expected when the four of us are reunited, and more than that, reunited abroad. We all lived in a nice flat not far away from the twin towers and the world trade center. As my sister wanted me to take a picture of us near the towers, I disagreed, telling her it is very stupidly touristic, and they are going to be there for many more years, so we can do it another time. It was, I remind you, July 2001...
Anyway, the next time I came to the States was after I had the feud with M., and I was looking to run away from the to the place that was as different as possible- Juilliard.
Apparently Juilliard was constructed by an architect who was formerly building state prisons (not a joke!), and it explains many things- as I cannot imagine a building that is more ugly or more depressing than that school. The ceilings were all very low, there were almost no windows around, and no places to sit and talk with friends. The practicing rooms looked like death-cells, with almost no air inside, and instead of a piano stood there was an ugly black box.
The pianos themselves looked as if they were suffering immensely, and it was the worst experience ever practicing at school.
As I didn't know at first where should I stay in New York, I was seriously considering to stay at the Juilliard dorms. Fortunately, there were no rooms available, or your humble servant would not be alive today. The dorms were the only place that was worse than the school itself. Situated in the same complex it was only a moment away from school (eww..), so there was no way you could miss a class. You had to share your tiny room with three more people, and was forced to eat three meals a day at the Juilliard Cafeteria. As the suicide rate was very high, the school decided to block the room windows, so no one could jump and sue the school for injuries.
Fortunately, I didn't have to pass all that, as I was living in another part of town, in an other student house- International House. As I have many many things to say about living there, it will have to wait for the next part of the post.
As for Juilliard, from the first moment I saw it was not a place for me. They completely discouraged any encounter with the different departments of the school (dance and drama), and the only things we got in our emails were invitations for a free ice cream socials in room 274. When I saw this place is clearly not for me, I decided to take the easiest courses that were offered in the masters degree. Here are some which I remember:
* Bach's Taxes- This is what I called that course, which was supposed to deal with Bach's music, but instead taught us how many gallons of beer Bach drank while composing (hint: a lot), and exactly how much did he earn for each piece he was composing. Welcome to America!
* Jazz History- A course taught by a tuba player, who claimed to have played with all the jazz legends. Although he was a nice, cool man, he had no idea how to teach a class. The only phrase he knew was, "You dig it? Yeah! You dig it?"
* Music and Technology- By far the easiest course I've ever taken in my life (if you knew how to turn on and off a computer, you could pass the class), taught by a very sexy Yugoslavian lesbian teacher, who never turned off her mobile phone- "Wait a second, it's my second girlfriend. Yes, beautiful? Yes, last night WAS great also for me... cannot wait for next time... Ok, class- where were we?"
* Contemporary Music- In this class we were supposed to play some contemporary chamber music, and discuss it afterwards with the class. Unfortunately, it rarely happened, because the teacher (a very ugly midget, spitting all over) could not stop talking himself, mainly about his group's upcoming concerts in Estonia and Lithuania, and the genius music he had found there.
* Piano Music- Again, another class in which students were supposed to play, but instead the psychotic teacher could not stop himself from talking, sharing with us his impotence problem, his views about contemporary boxers, and other relevant issues.
* Vienna in the beginning of the 20th century- Taught by the unforgettable Pia Gilbert, who was old enough to meet Schoenberg, Alma Mahler and their company, and I wouldn't be surprised if she knew Mozart and Haydn as well. Every second phrase of her started with Alma Mahler, usually using only her first name- "Oh, Alma was with EVERYBODY..."
* German Lieder- This was actually a fun class. Ten singers, all a caricature of classical singers and ten accompanists (I was the only "solo" pianist there), again, a caricature of themselves. It was as if I entered another world, or an episode of "Fame". The women hated each other, all men were gay, and it was just delightful to sit and watch all of that.
"Sharon, did you have a boob-job yesterday? You sound like you did... Shut up, Jessica, we all know how you got the audition in Houston last week..."
As I hated school, I came there less and less, and was spending most of my time in I.House. For some really crazy stories, my dinner with Natalie Portman, some useful tips and tricks for tourists, please wait for the next post. Until then, I bid you farewell.
These upcoming two posts will deal with the two years I lived in New York, suffering my way through so you could sit comfortably and read this on your laptops.
The first time I came to the States was in a very bizarre coincidence. My grandmother, who ran away to New York when my mother was in her teens and had almost no contact with us, sent one day a letter, offering 4 tickets and inviting the four of us (my divorced parents, my sister and I) to her son's wedding in New York. As it was clearly an un-vitation (surely she didn't expect us to actually agree to come- also, it was sent only a month before the wedding), and all of us are very crazy individuals, we immediately decided to accept this one time offer. We went there separately- my father first, as he had some work to do in LA, my mother and sister some days later, and I came last, from Paris, where I had my summer vacation with my (then) girlfriend.
As I am not the only unorganized person in my family, I wasn't provided with any information, and I didn't know the address of the flat my family stayed at (because we all thought that since my mother will pick me up in the airport, I shouldn't know anything else). In the immigration form, under "address in the US", I wrote: "father's apartment..."- so naive I was back then.
The officer, seeing that stamped my form, and shouted at me- "You are not welcome in the United States of America!". Fortunately, a nice lady working there saw me, and provided me with a fake address, sending me to another officer (if it was only two months later, I would be sent back immediately or stay in prison). This wasn't the end of the story, as I apparently told my mother to be in the wrong airport. As I was waiting for 4 hours in the airport, with no way to be reached, and with no phone number to call to, I got to the mature conclusion that my family is dead, and I have to deal with that fact. With $100 in my wallet, I began to imagine the endless possibilities that are for me that week. "After all his family died, and with only $100 in his pockets, Daniel M. started his way in New York, and after only a month became rich and famous. The new rumors suggest he is going out with Scarlett Joh...", in that point of my fantasy my mother, hysterically shouting at me, came to pick me up.
All that week was immensely bizarre and funny, as to be expected when the four of us are reunited, and more than that, reunited abroad. We all lived in a nice flat not far away from the twin towers and the world trade center. As my sister wanted me to take a picture of us near the towers, I disagreed, telling her it is very stupidly touristic, and they are going to be there for many more years, so we can do it another time. It was, I remind you, July 2001...
Anyway, the next time I came to the States was after I had the feud with M., and I was looking to run away from the to the place that was as different as possible- Juilliard.
Apparently Juilliard was constructed by an architect who was formerly building state prisons (not a joke!), and it explains many things- as I cannot imagine a building that is more ugly or more depressing than that school. The ceilings were all very low, there were almost no windows around, and no places to sit and talk with friends. The practicing rooms looked like death-cells, with almost no air inside, and instead of a piano stood there was an ugly black box.
The pianos themselves looked as if they were suffering immensely, and it was the worst experience ever practicing at school.
As I didn't know at first where should I stay in New York, I was seriously considering to stay at the Juilliard dorms. Fortunately, there were no rooms available, or your humble servant would not be alive today. The dorms were the only place that was worse than the school itself. Situated in the same complex it was only a moment away from school (eww..), so there was no way you could miss a class. You had to share your tiny room with three more people, and was forced to eat three meals a day at the Juilliard Cafeteria. As the suicide rate was very high, the school decided to block the room windows, so no one could jump and sue the school for injuries.
Fortunately, I didn't have to pass all that, as I was living in another part of town, in an other student house- International House. As I have many many things to say about living there, it will have to wait for the next part of the post.
As for Juilliard, from the first moment I saw it was not a place for me. They completely discouraged any encounter with the different departments of the school (dance and drama), and the only things we got in our emails were invitations for a free ice cream socials in room 274. When I saw this place is clearly not for me, I decided to take the easiest courses that were offered in the masters degree. Here are some which I remember:
* Bach's Taxes- This is what I called that course, which was supposed to deal with Bach's music, but instead taught us how many gallons of beer Bach drank while composing (hint: a lot), and exactly how much did he earn for each piece he was composing. Welcome to America!
* Jazz History- A course taught by a tuba player, who claimed to have played with all the jazz legends. Although he was a nice, cool man, he had no idea how to teach a class. The only phrase he knew was, "You dig it? Yeah! You dig it?"
* Music and Technology- By far the easiest course I've ever taken in my life (if you knew how to turn on and off a computer, you could pass the class), taught by a very sexy Yugoslavian lesbian teacher, who never turned off her mobile phone- "Wait a second, it's my second girlfriend. Yes, beautiful? Yes, last night WAS great also for me... cannot wait for next time... Ok, class- where were we?"
* Contemporary Music- In this class we were supposed to play some contemporary chamber music, and discuss it afterwards with the class. Unfortunately, it rarely happened, because the teacher (a very ugly midget, spitting all over) could not stop talking himself, mainly about his group's upcoming concerts in Estonia and Lithuania, and the genius music he had found there.
* Piano Music- Again, another class in which students were supposed to play, but instead the psychotic teacher could not stop himself from talking, sharing with us his impotence problem, his views about contemporary boxers, and other relevant issues.
* Vienna in the beginning of the 20th century- Taught by the unforgettable Pia Gilbert, who was old enough to meet Schoenberg, Alma Mahler and their company, and I wouldn't be surprised if she knew Mozart and Haydn as well. Every second phrase of her started with Alma Mahler, usually using only her first name- "Oh, Alma was with EVERYBODY..."
* German Lieder- This was actually a fun class. Ten singers, all a caricature of classical singers and ten accompanists (I was the only "solo" pianist there), again, a caricature of themselves. It was as if I entered another world, or an episode of "Fame". The women hated each other, all men were gay, and it was just delightful to sit and watch all of that.
"Sharon, did you have a boob-job yesterday? You sound like you did... Shut up, Jessica, we all know how you got the audition in Houston last week..."
As I hated school, I came there less and less, and was spending most of my time in I.House. For some really crazy stories, my dinner with Natalie Portman, some useful tips and tricks for tourists, please wait for the next post. Until then, I bid you farewell.
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